Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

And the things I overheard people talking about weren’t even interesting. The men went on about percentiles, or how so-and-so wouldn’t do, or about rugby games they had seen recently. The women meanwhile were all of a flutter about Yves St Laurent’s new concealer pen, a miraculous trompe l’oeil affair that reflected light away from wrinkles, or something. ‘Your father’s a genius,’ they told me. ‘How is Yves anyway?’ they asked Father.

‘Usual. Moping,’ Father said with a little sigh; and then from the French windows at the far end a voice cried, ‘The Beaujolais’s arrived!’ and everyone bubbled forwards, leaving Father and me standing there watching their backs.

‘Well?’ he said to me. ‘Learned your lesson?’

‘What?’ I said. ‘I mean, pardon?’

‘You don’t look like you’re having much fun.’

‘Well,’ I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I tried to pick my words, ‘it doesn’t seem like a very good party.’

‘It doesn’t, does it?’

‘There’s no cake,’ I observed. ‘There’s no chairs , even. And no one brought presents.’

‘Better off in bed, if you ask me.’

‘Dad… what do they all want ?’

Father laughed his big braying laugh that Mother was always complaining about. ‘That’s a good question, old chap. Very good question. What do they want?’ He took a swig of his wine. ‘What you have here, see, is a room full of very important people. And what very important people like more than anything else in the world is being made to feel important. So what they do is, they come to parties like this one where they can meet other important people and have important conversations about important things and they can all feel important together, see? Are they having fun? I don’t know. I don’t think they know any more, either. They get a bit like those peacocks out on the lawn, do you think they’re having fun?’

‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled.

‘Course they aren’t, parading around, showing each other their feathers, what kind of fun is that?’ Father tilted his head back and drained his glass; then stood and frowned, collecting his thoughts. ‘See, the thing is, Charles, the thing is, old sport, that although they tell you in school — and it’s very important to pay attention in school, and apply yourself, and learn as much as you can, do you hear me?’

‘Yes, Dad. Except it’s the holidays now.’

‘Well of course, yes, good fellow… where was I? Oh yes — the thing is that the world isn’t like a swimming pool, you know, where everybody’s splashing around in the same water, you know, in their togs. It might look that way, but in fact — in fact ,’ he brought up his finger for emphasis, the abruptness of the motion almost unbalancing him, ‘there’s another swimming pool, a tiny little one, and the people in it are the ones who make the…’ He blinked deliberately. ‘It’s like — what’s the name of that fellow in Flash Gordon , the baddie?’

‘Ming the Merciless?’

‘Yes, him. Well, take the folks in this room. They mightn’t look like much more than a bunch of old fogies, but if you add them together, they run the show just like Ming does in… whatever his place is called.’

‘Mongo.’

‘Right, Mongo. So as I say, although this might look like a party, where you might have a bit of fun, it’s actually more like work, because this is where all the people from the small swimming pool make their deals and decisions. So it’s very important that we’re nice to them, nice and polite, and we let them eat all our food. Second nature to a woman like your mother, of course. Grew up in a place like this, all the great and good, all splashing around…’

I had never heard Father speak this way before. It was a bit like when the babysitter lets you stay up and watch a horror film — too strange and scary to actually enjoy, but at the same time unquestionably a unique opportunity, so you stay quiet and don’t draw attention to yourself. His voice was loud and puffing, but his speech was somehow becoming dimmer now, and his face was starting to sag. ‘Splashing around… pluck ideas from a dreamland of Beaujolais and that revolting cheese and dump it on the unsuspecting… Wives at me for free cosmetics, should call the next line bloody Lazarus, ha ha…’

‘Dad?’ pulling on his hand.

He looked down, the white collar of his shirt too tight beneath his surprised red face.

‘How’s that brioche?’ he said.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, quickly chewing off a piece because I was discovering at that very moment that I wanted to cry.

‘Caterers ought to be shot.’ He laughed again, and his brow unfurrowed. ‘See the tennis today? That Lendl? He’s something, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but Boris Becker’s going to beat him.’

‘Boris Becker, listen, my boy, the day a red-haired German — a red-haired German, that’s all wrong for a start — the day a red-haired German teenager wins Wimbledon, I will personally eat my hat. Germans can’t play grass-court. They’re too analytical. For grass you need an artist. Pancho Gonzales, ever see him play? Now there was a man. Beautiful to watch. That’s what it’s all about. Or take cricket. Who’s the greatest bowler of all time?’

‘I don’t know. Underwood?’

‘To the untrained eye, perhaps, but if you want a true craftsman you need to go right back to Rhodes. Took over four thousand wickets, he had this funny sort of a spin, he — well, I’ll show you, come on.’ Taking me by the hand, he led me out of the room and down the hall. ‘“ The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told ”, know who said that?’

‘Yeats?’

‘Goodlad.’ He was impressed. Opening the front door, ‘Bugger, it’s raining — well, we’ll just go out for a minute, you’re wearing shoes aren’t you?’

I followed him, disorientated, down the steps to the front lawn and stood shivering in a late-night drizzle while he ran about assembling a wicket from two wine bottles and a frisbee. Then he bounded back into the house to fetch the bat and ball. ‘Here’s the line, all right?’ He dug his heel into the grass and scraped out a muddy mark. ‘You bat first. Now here’s how they say old Rhodes used to do it —’

He hung his jacket on somebody’s wing mirror, and began a long, lolloping run. His shirtsleeve shuttled up his wrist as his arm came round in an arc and the ball flew from his hand; I shook the tiredness and the strangeness of it from my eyes and drew the bat protectively to my shins as the ball materialized before me –

‘Bravo!’ Father clapped, jogging up to me. ‘Not bad at all. Now you have a turn.’

I’d rescued the ball from the undergrowth and was just about to start my run-up when a silhouette appeared in the doorway and inquired as to what, exactly, we thought we were doing.

‘We’re having a very important philosophical debate,’ Father said, touching his bat off the ground. ‘We’re righting wrongs.’

‘Would it be too much to ask for you to do it inside?’ Mother said icily.

‘In a minute.’

Mother’s arm dropped from the lintel to fold tightly across her chest. ‘People are wondering where you are,’ she said, and then, ‘your guest will be getting lonely.’

‘Come on, Charles, let’s see what you have.’ He motioned me to deliver the ball; obediently I started to run.

‘We wouldn’t want her to start frowning , and jeopardize her lucrative career,’ Mother said from the doorway in a wicked singsong voice. ‘What would your insurance think of that?’

‘ Christ! ’ he turned and roared, his bow tie askew, ‘I said in a minute, didn’t I, can’t you see I’m with the bloody boy —’